


mobile vulgus

by oxymoronic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, One Shot, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months following Voldemort's defeat, the Ministry becomes captivated with discovering his followers until the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mobile vulgus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://oxymoronic.livejournal.com/93411.html) on my LJ.
> 
> Vivi challenged/encouraged me to write a Crucible-style Harry Potter fic. It's got quite a lot of influence from V for Vendetta. Beta'd by the lovely [abbyleaf101](http://abbyleaf101.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Contains torture, both explicit and implicit. Follows canon with the exclusion of the Epilogue, and therefore contains HP7 spoilers.

 

 

London, gray and gloomy. Deep down, amidst the sprawl of the Ministry that skulks beneath the streets’ surface, a boy is screaming.

After a while, it stops. He sprawls limply on the floor, no strength in him to curl up. The wizard above him crouches, perching nimbly on his hackles. “Names, Mr. Malfoy; that’s all I require. Even one will suffice.” He rises once more, easily stretches out the hand with his wand. “Who did you see with He Who Must Not Be Named?” There is no reply from the boy; the wizard regards him idly, wondering whether, after such extensive exposure, he is even able to speak. “ _Crucio_.”; and again the shrieks ring out, the likes of which unheard even within these walls.

The boy quietens. He looks up at the man, wets his lips. He speaks.

Unbeknownst to both, silent wheels slide into motion.

 

 

The night before the election, Percy shook Shacklebolt’s hand. He had liked working for the man, who had, amongst other things, the same quiet respect for the alphabet in his filing system. It had been a soft, private moment; a farewell, he realised later, as he failed to get to sleep. They had both known what the morning’s news would bring.

He does not like the new man. Pockthorpe. The man is not a Dark wizard; indeed, it is his loathing of all such things which won him the office, in these dark times. Percy stands behind him as he addresses the press, promises to obliterate every last vestige of Dark Magic said with such conviction it frightens him, even then. They have elected evil to destroy evil; chosen him from terror and desperation. He cannot blame them, but knows nothing good will come of it.

To begin with, Percy is not involved, for the simple fact that, to begin with, neither is the Minister; the goings-on of the Inquiries bubble up only as tales whispered during tea breaks. Then comes the arrest of Filius Flitwick, and suddenly the Minister is standing before an expanse of flashing bulbs, announcing to the world how sorcery is amongst them – how evil can live as someone’s wife, someone’s daughter, someone’s son, someone’s neighbour, someone’s brother, someone’s friend.

Percy is appointed Head of Inquiries to the Practice of Dark Sorcery, and his desk seethes and brims with letters of suspicion from spouses, siblings, subordinates. He is forced to scribe in Inquiries, even as fellow schoolmates are paraded in front of him, tortured until they spit out false, deceitful words.

 

 

Percy’s struggling to stand by the time he Apparates home, gloomy Westminster swept from under his feet and replaced by their warm, bright flat. He can hear Oliver cooking from the hallway, and hangs up his coat and scarf before collapsing into a chair by the table, head in his hands. He refuses to move until food is placed in front of him, hot, rich, tasty, and he inhales it in a desperate attempt to rid his bones of the Dementors’ chill. Oliver picks at his, mainly waiting to hear the news. “Today?” he asks, when Percy eventually finishes.

He wipes his mouth, glances over. “Urquhart, Vaisey. Hannah Abbott.”

Oliver goggles at him. “Hannah _Abbot_? She was a Hufflepuff!” Percy shrugs. “They’ll be accusing _Gryffindors_ next,” Oliver mutters darkly. “Did they name anyone?”

Percy shakes his head sharply. “Not yet. Early days.” Oliver nods, and they both try not to think about what the next few will contain. Oliver absently takes his hand, and Percy smiles, feels the stress of the day leak away with the warmth he finds there.

 

 

Percy’s stomach aches when he arrives home. Spheres hovering in the air outside, undetectable to the Muggle eye, blend from lurid green to sickly red as he steps through into the living room; curfew has begun. Oliver’s out – a Quidditch thing, and even though he’s known of it for weeks he still sits up in fear, reliving their farewell in the kitchen that morning as if it was their last. Oliver stumbles in at 2am, drunk, and his face lights up at the sight of Percy on their couch; he climbs on top of him, kisses him long and hot and slow. “I told you not to wait up,” he murmurs, and Percy shivers, in spite of himself. He laughs hollowly, tries to pass off a joke about making sure he was safe – but Oliver knows him too well, grabs a hold of his shoulder and traps him there. “What’s the matter, Percy? What’s happened?”

He’s lost the ability to breathe, let alone speak. “You – ” He grabs at Oliver’s shirt so quickly it tears. “Your name,” he blurts, “your name came up in court today.”Oliver goes white, his mouth flapping open in that stupid way you’d never think could happen in real life. “I didn’t write it down, it was only for a second and she was screaming anyway and it could have been anyone’s – ” Oliver gets off him, and Percy sits there in the silence, scouring his face and desperately trying to work out what to say.

“I haven’t done anything,” Oliver says after an eternity of silence, voice small. He sounds like a child.

 

 

Things become unspoken truths. One day, Percy comes home to find Oliver solemn and listless; Karl Broadmoore, deposed from the Falcons. Another, Susan Bones is seized for Inquiries whilst shopping.

Everyone knows of the reason for their arrest, but no one speaks of it.

Oliver stops him one night as he tries to follow him to bed, arm planted firmly across the doorframe. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, coolly, and Percy feels his heart crunch.

“We’re not going to get called on in the middle of the night, Oliver,” he snaps, even as he tries his very best to keep calm. “And besides, even if we _are_ , you can answer the door, and I’ll – ”

“Percy, if they come in the night, I don’t think they’re going to knock.” He slams the door, and Percy stands in the hall, alone.

 

 

Oliver doesn’t speak to him for five days, and on the sixth, Percy visits home. His appearances there are infrequent, but his mother greets him with surprised delight, and he sits in the kitchen as she potters about, nattering. The house is almost empty, nowadays, and he knows she likes the company. She pours him tea, and they sit at the table as he lets his siblings’ news wash over and around him like a warm blanket. After a while, she falls silent, and takes his hand.

“I’m losing him, Mum,” he blurts suddenly, and feels himself colour at the words. Her hand tightens on his. “He thinks it’s only a matter of time before – ” His voice falters, and he looks away, through the window, but all he can see is the two of them in that courtroom, Aurors’ wands raised, Dementors at their backs.

“You mustn’t be afraid, Percy,” she says, quietly. “They can’t touch you; they wouldn’t dare. Harry will vouch for you.” Harry, Harry, the ineffable Harry, whose word holds more power than Pockthorpe’s, even now.

The flat’s in darkness when he Apparates back, and, thinking himself alone, he flicks on the lights with a wave of his wand and nearly jumps out of his skin to find Oliver sitting there, staring out of the window with nothing written across his eyes. He goes into the kitchen to make – _something_ , he’s not even sure what – and hears Oliver follow him, knows he’s standing in the doorway, watching him. His back’s to the door so he doesn’t see Oliver speak but hears him all the same – “I can’t do this. Not anymore.” Percy’s hands are trembling, fingers like vices around a mug. “They took Lee today, Percy. _Lee_.”

“They wouldn’t take – ”

“Yeah, well, they did, alright?” He still can’t look round, can’t even move.

“But, we’re safe – ”

“ _You’re_ safe. Christ, Percy, you’re a fucking _Weasley_ , of course you’re safe! But me? I’m a fucking _nobody_. They can have me, easy as anything, and you know it.” He hears Oliver breathe in, knows he’ll be drawing himself up. “I’m not going to give them reason to.” Oliver slams the kitchen door, and only then can Percy move, his whole body turning to jelly, the mug smashing loudly in the sink as he grabs the counter for support.

 

 

The _Prophet_ ’s nestled on Percy’s desk in the morning, as ever, and he ignores it as long as he can do, past the first cup of tea and the red-rimmed memos that demand his immediate attention. Eventually, he flips it open, and is faced with the news that Draco Malfoy faced the Execution Squad at midnight the night before.

The world falls away around him. Suddenly, nothing matters, nothing but knowing that Oliver is _safe_ – he Apparates out in a heartbeat – searches the flat, finds it empty, _fuck_ , Oliver’s things still half-packed from the night before – he runs from room to room, screaming himself hoarse – can feel himself crying – there’s a loud _crack!_ from the hall and Oliver is _there_ , running towards him, hugging him as hard as he can, talking and talking even though Percy can’t hear a word over the roar of blood in his ears.

When he calms, Oliver’s still holding him, hand stroking soothingly along the base of his spine. Percy’s disgusted to realise how hard he’s been crying, his head thumping painfully, and he tries to pry himself away in embarrassment, but Oliver’s having none of it. He reaches down and kisses Percy softly, and smiles in a genuine way that Percy’s not seen for weeks, now. “I never want to let you out of my sight,” Oliver murmurs.

Malfoy’s Inquiry had been before his time, but he still remembers the last time he had seen him. So small and afraid. Oliver seems to sense what he’s thinking, squeezes softly. “Malfoy had the Mark, Perce. It was only a matter of time.”

 

 

They live their lives; it’s all Pockthorpe allows them to do, and he’s working on that even now. Percy works and writes and notes every little name that’s screamed, vividly aware of what would happen should he falter, knowing with a cool fear he’s already broken the law. In his nightmares, he sees his familiar hand curving to mark _Oliver Wood, Oliver Wood, Oliver Wood_ , and screams himself awake every time begging him not to. Often, he lies awake and looks at him, thinks how, in another life, it would have been another name; in another life, he would have felt nothing to write it down.

 

 

Oliver stands in the wreckage of their flat. Furniture lies splintered; books ravaged; angry splotches of black from ill-aimed curses paint the walls. A heartbeat after arriving Percy’s crossed the room and latched onto his arm, and he Apparates them out of there almost, _almost_ too slowly to miss the bolt of red light flung Oliver’s way.

Oliver watches him catch his breath, though neither can speak with the thoughts of how close it had just been. “The Burrow?” he asks, and Percy nods, pointing over the lip of a hill nearby. They walk in silence, thinking of nothing but the task in hand. Arthur greets them both with a rough hug, and then moves into the kitchen to make tea.

Oliver puts one hand on his shoulder and Percy slumps, almost colliding with the side-table in his rush to sit. “I wasn’t fast enough – ”

“You were,” Oliver soothes, and grabs hold of his hand, crouching at his knees. “Really, Perce, you were brilliant.”

“ _I was so sure they’d_ – ” Oliver kisses him to shut him up, tell him he’s still alive, _they’re_ still alive, still free. Arthur brings the tea, a little slab of Honeydukes’ best on the tray, and they drink and eat and feel the panic slip out of them.

“Who named me?”

Percy shudders. “Lee Jordan.” He feels sick at the memory, the beautiful, wonderful, brilliant boy they’d known reduced to less than nothing, screaming out names just to make it _stop_. He could tell Oliver takes the news badly, watches as his mouth thins and his face tightens, and he wishes there was something he could _do_.

“I’ve never been in hiding before,” Oliver says absently, his smile vacant. “Not even during the War. You-Know-Who didn’t have much interest in Quidditch captains, not even Gryffindor ones.”

The door nearly rebounds off its hinges as George bounds in, screaming Percy’s name at the top of his lungs, a copy of the _Prophet_ in one hand – “Merlin, Perce,” he crows, grinning like a madman, “this is _fantastic_!”

“What’s he done?” Arthur asks mildly from the kitchen, used to the raucous lot of them, as Oliver grabs the paper and starts reading.

“Only hexed half of the bloody Ministry! Pockthorpe’s _livid_ , his whole face’s turned bright green and blobby – Percy, you must tell me how you did that – ”

Oliver pushes the paper at him, jabs a finger at the caption beneath their photo – _Oliver Wood (23), wanted for Inquiry, and Percy Ignatius Weasley (also 23), accused of Impeding the Pursuit of Sorcery and Abducting a Suspected_. “Fancy that,” Percy finds himself saying, “I’m a wanted man.”

“You’re a royal idiot,” Oliver mutters, smiling. “I don’t recall the part of the contingency plan where you turned the Minister for Magic into a Bundimun.”

They leave George to celebrate with a respectfully indifferent Arthur downstairs, and trudge up the winding flights to Percy’s old, unaltered room. Oliver, for some inexplicable reason, is an old hat at Extension Charms, and gets to work on making it comfortable enough for two; Percy just watches, unable to swallow around his heart in his throat. They’d never spoken about what would happen next, but to live here, with him, safe – seems perfect.

 

 

Percy discovers that Oliver’s a city boy when he’s thoroughly bored of the Burrow barely a month in. He’s never felt any preference for town or country, because he’s always tended to live in his room, wherever, but he sympathises with the general principle of it. For Oliver’s birthday, he roots around deep in the attic and finds some old brooms – barely better than battered Cleansweeps – and takes him out onto the moors, stands on the ground muttering Protection and Concealment enchantments as Oliver whoops and throws himself around the sky above. Percy obviously can’t offer him presents, but when Oliver lands he kisses him and says he doesn’t care.

They rely on Percy’s family for updates, a job which he doesn’t begrudge them in the slightest. It seems surreal, to spend his day wandering around golden countryside and come home to learn of how many more have died that day.

 

 

Summer rolls on quickly, and brings Ginny home from her last year of Hogwarts; Percy shares an incredibly stilted and awkward conversation with her in the kitchen, in which it becomes apparent that she had no idea he was staying, and though she is surprised to find him there, it is not unpleasantly so. She spends a lot of her time hanging hopefully out of windows, and he suspects they may soon receive an impromptu visit from Harry Potter.

He fights with Oliver a few days after her arrival. It’s bitchy and pathetic and not over anything in particular, but Percy’s so fucking _scared_ he can’t seem to stop anything pouring out of his stupid mouth. It morphs, as such arguments always do, into a full-on verbal slinging match, and his mum hurries in just in time to see Oliver sneer and spit “ _coward_ – just like you’ve always been – ” – and then Percy walks away. He has nothing to say to that.

He knows he should do something poignant, like go for a long, thoughtful ramble, or something useful, like helping his dad attack their Horklump infestation, but, being who he is, Percy escapes to his room, locks the door and reads.

Oliver knocks on his door a good few hours later, and Percy’s so desperately bored of the books owned by his seventeen-year-old self he acquiesces and opens it. Oliver looks sheepish and uncomfortable, and Percy stubbornly hangs on to his annoyance, scowling out of the window and reminding himself why he’s angry. “Your mum gave me a right bollocking over that last comment,” Oliver says, finally, and Percy forces down a grin at the thought of Molly Weasley looming over the six-foot-three Quidditch player. He takes a hold of Percy’s arm, and though his hand feels awkward and hot he doesn’t shrug it off. “I’m sorry.”

Percy feels himself smile, hears himself say “yeah, me too – ” and then Oliver hugs him, and he finds himself forgetting all his anger in a heartbeat. He scowls at himself for caving so easily, but it’s always been the same with Oliver. Besides, he knows exactly what they were really fighting about, and has a nasty feeling it’s about to come up. Oliver sits on the bed, and Percy hovers by the window, trying to stamp down on the queasiness in his stomach. “Have you spoken to George?”

“Yeah, saw him last night. Mum’s fine, she Apparated to her sister’s and took a Portkey. Dunno where, but it’ll probably be somewhere hot.”

“Did, um, he say anything about – ?”

Oliver shakes his head abruptly, and Percy looks at him closely, wondering if he’s not telling him something. “Molly was in the room.”

“Ah.” Molly Weasley has the same opinion as Percy to the idea of gallivanting off to join a group of anti-governmental vigilantes with no plan, no support and no chance of success, and to say it isn’t a positive one is to put it very mildly.

For some unfathomable reason, Oliver thinks it would be brilliant.

The four of them – Percy and his mum versus George and Oliver – argued one night til at least two of them had gone blue in the face, which had just been _horrible_ , but now Percy finds himself scouring everything Oliver does or says for the slightest sign of conspiracy or rebellion, which is a million times worse. Oliver leafs through one of Percy’s discarded books, and he cringes to realise it’s the _Encyclopaedia of Toadstools_ , but he supposes it could be worse. If he were the type who could even fleetingly condone book-burning, half of his bookcase would have bitten the dust a long time ago. “This looks new,” Oliver comments, and it’s not unkind; just a remark.

“My brother’s copy was stolen, a week into our first term. I never found it, but I have my suspects.” They share a quick grin; Lee Jordan, who had a terrible habit of not _quite_ buying all his books on time; Lee Jordan, whom they’d both shared a dorm with for seven interesting years; Lee Jordan, whom they now don’t know whether he is alive or dead. Percy spins the book round, points to the Hogwarts crest embossed at the bottom of the back cover. “Professor Sprout gave me this one, for doing well in my exams.”

“It’s a good thing not all the teachers took up that policy, or Hogwarts would’ve been out of pocket by Christmas.” Percy shoots him a Look, but he beams back, nothing short of beatific. “Nobody ever bought me anything,” Oliver grumbles, pretending to look affronted.

Percy rolls his eyes. “That’s because you only ever bothered with Quidditch, Oliver.”

“Yeah, and that turned out to be pretty useful for my career, didn’t it? Would’ve really appreciated a new bro–”

“Oliver, when all this is over, I swear I will buy you the biggest, fastest, shiniest broom I can lay my hands on,” Percy says good-naturedly as he closes the book and places it reverentially to one side.

Oliver goes suspiciously quiet, and watches Percy closely. “You know, it’d be over a lot quicker if – ”

“Can we not?” he interrupts. “You know I don’t want to, and I hate arguing about it.” He sighs, scours his face with one hand. “Please. Not right now.”

Oliver scowls and lies on the bed, glowering at the door for a while before he snaps. “I don’t know how you can stand it, stuck here when you could be out there, _helping_ – ”

“I can’t stand it,” he mutters through gritted teeth, “I couldn’t stand it before and I can’t stand it now, but while you’re here you’re _safe_ , and I will do anything I can to keep you that way.” He glares at him. “Even if it means tying you to a chair and leaving you in the attic with only the ghoul for company.” He expects a quip from Oliver about the ghoul being better at conversation, but nothing comes. “Besides, I fail to see how a Quidditch player and a Ministry swot would be of any use whatsoever.” He stands, flicking on the lights absent-mindedly with his wand; he’s tired, but Oliver’s on his bed, and he reckons he could shake it with a cup of tea by the living-room fire.

 

 

Sunday morning sunlight pitches its tent in Percy’s room sinfully early, and Percy lies there stubbornly for a while, staring at the whorls and crevices on his ceiling. Oliver is made of sterner stuff, and lies there, inches from him, snoring happily away.

A year to the day, since their escape. Probably the strangest anniversary ever. He wonders how many more they’ll have to suffer, thinks of all the myopic years before with no inkling of this bizarre future.

Ten minutes later, he surrenders, partly because he needs the toilet and partly because he can feel the washing-up glaring at him from downstairs. He stands and stretches, winces, dresses and potters about, and by the time he’s drowning the singing saucepan in magically-created soapsuds he almost feels awake. He sends things absently flying around the kitchen to their proper places, and trusts the drying rack to keep emptying the dirties into the sink. Percy considers making Oliver breakfast, but he might be out for hours yet – he feels himself flush, wondering whether the twins’ll rib them about the noise last night –

He falters, staring out the window. He feels sick to remember they can’t. George isn’t even at home.

He’s almost done when his mum bustles in behind him, and he dries his hands on a tea-towel as he turns to her. He finds the smile drops from his face the second he catches her expression. “They’ve arrested Harry,” she says, quietly. He feels his world drop from under him. “You have to run.”

The moment she says it, the front door bursts inwards off its hinges in a whirl of screeching sparks. With a bang, a man hurtles out of the living-room fireplace, almost hits his mum disarmed with a Stunning spell, but Percy’s already running full-pelt towards the other wizard in the hallway – the Disarming Charm catches him unawares, and he shoots off his feet and slams bodily into the wall. As everything slides woozily away around him, all he can see is the second man slowly climbing the stairs.

 

 

Percy sits in his cell, and wonders when they’ll come for him.

He has no idea of where he is, other than it can’t be Azkaban – or they’ve greatly improved the facilities since his last tour with Pockthorpe. The room is clean, exactly square, and painted white, lit well by an unknown source, though kept cold enough to be just shy of comfortable. His clothes are clean and well-fitting, and also white. There is a bed to one side, and no toilet, though he finds himself never needing to go.

There is also no door, but as much can be expected from a wizard’s cell.

He relives the last two minutes he can remember. He meditates on the memory, tries desperately to notice whether his mum escapes the kitchen, but he knows he needs nothing short of a Pensieve to learn more. Mostly, he replays the words she spoke to him – “ _Harry’s been arrested.”_ – until his head aches from the concentration. Each time, his world lurches a little more on its axis; each time, he tries to grasp the irreconcilable fact of Harry Potter being accused of Dark Magic. The rational part of him knows quite clearly there will be no foundation to the allegation, nothing more than Pockthorpe’s lust for control – in fact, he knows that the overwhelming majority of the allegations are born of nothing but torture and desperation. He tries to tell himself people will not stand for it.

– and yet, and yet, the human part of him whispers they never found out what happened in that missing year; that a seventeen-year-old boy was strong enough to defeat He Who Must Not Be Named; that he had been witnessed performing magic of dubious origins on more than one occasion... and he knows the same litany will run through every witch and wizard’s mind. Besides, their love for Harry Potter will never quite beat their urge to keep themselves and their loved ones safe, and for this he cannot blame them.

 

 

He has no knowledge of days or nights; there are no windows, and no natural light enters his cell. He tires, but does not hunger. He tries to count seconds and minutes, but the numbers fumble and slip from his head for no reason he can ascertain. Sometimes he has nightmares, realms of fear and pain, but they float out of his head when he wakes.

He thinks of the witches and wizards whose names he wrote down on those cursed pieces of parchment. He remembers every single one. He imagines meeting with each, thinks of the apologies he would say for the part he played in their fate. He pledges to do so, if he and they survive this.

 

 

Most of all, he thinks of Oliver. Sometimes, he allows himself to walk between the memories of their younger years – of Hogwarts, mostly, though sometimes just after. Parts are clearer than others, with some terms consisting of nothing but homework, cold Quidditch matches and never-ending matches of Gobstones by the fire in the Common Room, and others he can relive with such clarity he almost forgets they’re not the here-and-now.

There are, in his mind, three presents for Oliver. In one, he lies dead, or almost-dead, screaming in a Ministry cell. He knows this is probably the case.

In another, Oliver took a leaf out of his mother’s book and Apparated clean away to safety. Probably somewhere hot. He hopes against hope this is true.

In the third, Oliver’s crashing around Britain like a hero, tearing down tyrannies and leading rebellions against their evil Minister. This is the one which Percy believes in.

 

 

He remembers the dreams; clings to them when he wakes. A few are make-believe adventures with his family in Egypt, though he has no idea why – probably because they were all together, safe and contented. Even more involve the myriad of things he wished he’d done at Hogwarts, joining in the midnight adventures of Oliver and Lee, Fred and George, and sometimes even Harry and Ron.

All end identically; with Oliver’s face, promising that he’s on his way. He’s coming for him.

 

 

He wakes to a white room, but his whole body aches. He feels too feeble to breathe, struggles to do so – and he’s mildly surprised to sense a kerfuffle around him, and when a wand taps his chest it seems to free him from the weakness, and he can pull in air again.

He’s not surprised to see Oliver sitting beside him. It seems only natural.

 

 

He spends a handful of weeks in St Mungo’s, but takes less time to heal than many. He had been put in a Stasis Charm, and left hanging in a back room like a slab of meat, as had happened to many of the accused when dissent and rebellion spread; the Ministry had better things to do with their time than torture the likes of him. He may be a Weasley, but he isn’t a particularly interesting one.

Harry is alive – a little worse for wear, but still breathing. He’s surprised how much the news lifts him; he’d never much bought into the Boy-Who-Lived, not as much as the rest of his family, but somewhere along the way he’s evidently adopted Harry as some form of mascot. His family is safe, also; his mum suffered the same fate as him, but, as ever, has taken it in good spirits and is already bossing the men around her. He visits her, once he regains the ability to walk; she’s only a few rooms down from him, and glad of the company, as she’s taking slightly longer to heal.

A week before he’s due to leave, he gets a visit from Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly restored Minister for Magic, who asks whether he wishes to continue his role in rebuilding their country; Percy can only say he’ll consider it. Shacklebolt takes it in his stride, shrugging and smiling in a knowing way almost reminiscent of Albus Dumbledore, and whispers conspiratorially as he leaves that Oliver Wood had a much greater role in the rebellion than he’s giving himself credit for, and he might, indeed, have to offer the position to him instead.

Percy’s still smiling at the idea of Oliver sat behind a Ministry desk when the latter skulks back in, still sore about having been banished from the room. He scowls at Percy for the smile on his face, annoyed at missing the joke. “What’re you so pleased about?”

Percy’s smile widens. “I understand there was some use for a Quidditch player after all.”

He watches as Oliver’s expression softens, and he, too, begins to grin. “Indeed,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling, “and even a couple of times where a Ministry swot would’a come in handy, too.”

 

 

They feed the pelicans in St James’ Park, because it’s something Percy has never got round to doing. Oliver’s crap at it, and he soon concedes boredom and wanders off with his newly-purchased camera to find something interesting to capture, but Percy keeps going until the food is gone, and when he leaves he gets many a baleful glare from the birds around him.

He still hasn’t replied to Shacklebolt, but the Minister doesn’t seem too bothered about his lackadaisical approach to the job offer. He’s preoccupied with rebuilding the Auror office with people they can trust; under Pockthorpe, far too many had become monsters in their attempts to escape accusation. Percy understands their motive, though does not condone, as do many, but it does not sit with the public to forgive with such ease.

When Oliver tires of chasing coots, and fails to lure the Plimpies out of the lake for a snapshot, he turns the camera on Percy, who does his best to look disdainful and stare thoughtfully across to the Palace, hiding amongst the never-ending shrubbery. (It will, in the future, be Oliver’s favourite photograph of him, though Percy rather thinks he looks like a pompous twat.) In his breast pocket sits the list of the final twelve witches and wizards he needs to visit, pressing a little heavily against his chest, but he knows they can wait. In the autumn sunlight, he feels like he has all the time in the world.


End file.
